The Memory Key Read online

  Vergets disease, the forgetting sickness, is a degenerative disorder that affects the brain and causes severe memory loss. For most of history, the illness was endemic in our country, primarily afflicting older people. But sixty years ago, the disease began spreading, and it was no longer just the elderly who suffered; more and more of the middle-aged were being diagnosed with Vergets, including several members of my family, most on my dad’s side but a few on my mom’s as well.

  The reasons for the epidemic are still unclear. Most scientists blame pollution and genetics. Some believe that lack of exercise and bad diet were contributing factors. A few religious sects declared we were being punished for our heathen ways. A report circulated that an extremist group, the Citizen Army, had poisoned our water supply. Then there are the conspiracy theorists who believe our own government poisoned our water supply. But most scientists blame pollution and genetics.

  Whatever the reason, the whole nation was in crisis (other parts of the world, mostly first world countries, were also affected, though not to the same degree). The workforce was shrinking. The economy deteriorating. The population was afraid and who could blame them? How frightening it must have been to watch their loved ones’ brains turn into zombie mush. How terrifying it must have been to wonder if their own brain would be the next to turn traitor.

  When I was in middle school, I wrote an essay about the man who invented the memory key, P. B. Fishman. He was not one of the many doctors or scientists or researchers toiling tirelessly toward a cure for Vergets disease, funded generously by the government or private foundations. Mr. Fishman was a technician for a manufacturer of computer chips. He worked at home on his dining room table, ten feet away from his wife, who sat in her recliner knitting sweaters that—despite the beauty of the color work and stitches—no one could wear because the sizing was incomprehensible: sleeves long enough for a giant attached to a body made for a child’s narrow chest, or vice versa. She no longer remembered her own name.

  Mr. Fishman created a silicone computer chip that was responsive to neural activity, and programmed it to detect and record the patterns of neuronal communication associated with memory. The chip then encoded and stored this information—which was what the Vergets-affected brain was unable to do.

  When his invention was made public, the investors appeared, Keep Corp was founded, and just two years later, the first generation of memory keys came onto the market. These were specifically made for those already suffering from Vergets; they did not restore older memories, but enabled the patient to create new memories after implantation.

  The impact of this new technology was immediately evident. People with Vergets were able to take care of themselves again. Some even went back to work, like my father’s grandfather. After five years in an assisted living facility, my great-grandpa Joe moved home and got a job at a hardware store (he had previously been a lawyer, but he couldn’t remember that).

  Of course there were side effects. The minor ones: headache, nausea. The less minor ones: rare seizures, the complications of only being able to remember the recent past. The major one: the complications of being able to remember the recent past unnaturally well. For unlike human memory, which softens and distorts and blocks, this first line of memory keys preserved everything without discrimination. Patients complained their heads felt busy—but it was a choice between busy brains and bumble brains. My father says his grandpa Joe never regretted getting one of those early keys, even though he suffered from migraines for the rest of his life.

  A decade later, Keep Corp unveiled their new, groundbreaking invention. The H-Filter transformed immaculate artificial memory into something that mimicked the imperfections of human memory. Flawed and fading. Shortly thereafter, memory keys started being used as part of a precautionary program; they were implanted in people not yet suffering from Vergets.

  At first keys were prescribed only to those who had a family history of the disease, but because the illness was so widespread, this included nearly every adult. My grandparents’ generation all had their memory keys implanted during middle age. My parents’ generation all had their memory keys implanted before the end of adolescence. My generation all had our memory keys implanted by the age of four.

  It’s a normal thing now, like vaccinations or seat belts or an apple a day. An essential preventative measure against Vergets disease, is what my mother used to say. Skeptical as she was about early implantation, she wholeheartedly believed in the necessity of the memory key. Mom also owned three biographies of P. B. Fishman, which came in handy when I was writing that essay about him for my middle school history class. That was before she died. Those books are now boxed up in the attic with the rest of her belongings. Dad kept everything: her jewelry and sweaters, her collection of romance novels. Even her socks. Even her oldest, holey socks.

  Only her notebooks and papers are gone. After the car accident, two solemn, suited men came for those things. My father protested until they showed him Mom’s contract, which stated all work done while she was employed by Keep Corp belonged to Keep Corp. Then he gave way, as he always did in those days.

  The two solemn, suited men were kind. They apologized for the intrusion, offered their condolences, and presented us with a giant fruit basket.

  The problem with my key must be its H-Filter, the part that is supposed to keep artificial memory as distant as natural memory. I know I should go see a technician to get it fixed. Keep Corp headquarters are located just north of Middleton, only forty minutes away by car.

  But medical procedures make me nervous, they always have.

  Don’t worry. You won’t feel a thing, says the doctor.

  I stare at him, disbelieving, while Mama squeezes my hand. Her fingers are cool, her palm is firm. I scream as the needle sinks through my skin.

  I felt a thing, I say accusingly. My mother laughs. The doctor apologizes and gives me a lollipop, a green one that sweetly stings my tongue.

  Then I’m back in my room, head throbbing, mouth thick with the taste of green lollipop. I grab my water glass from the nightstand to drink away the sugary flavor, drink away the sound of my mother’s laughter.

  But the cup is empty. So I set one foot on the floor, and the other. Careful out the hallway, careful down the stairs. In the kitchen I refill my water glass. Sip. Sip. Sip. It seems if I focus completely on what I’m doing, I can keep myself in the present. Thank goodness.

  The front door creaks open. “Lora?” calls my father.

  “I’m here! What are you doing home already?”

  “Wendy called me.” He comes into the kitchen. His gray hair is rumpled as it always is at the end of the day, and his eyeglasses sit askew on his nose. He looks exactly like what he is: the absentminded professor. My mother called him that, she called him my absentminded professor, Dr. Kenneth Mint.

  “I knew I couldn’t trust Wendy,” I say, making myself smile. “It’s really just a tiny bump on the head.”

  “Let me see.” He stands behind me, inspecting. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Told you so. Don’t you have office hours now?” I ask. My dad teaches contemporary literature at Middleton University. Their summer session just started.

  “Canceled for a family emergency. Lora, are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Positive,” I say.

  “That’s my girl, rescuing little old ladies.”

  “I’m sure Wendy exaggerated,” I say.

  “I’m sure she didn’t. We still on for dinner?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good, I’ll tell Austin,” he says, and I’m surprised, but pleased. Aunt Austin is a congresswoman, so she is very, very busy, and usually out of town. But Dad calls and she confirms she’ll be there, though she might be late if her meeting runs late, and if that happens, she apologizes in advance.

  My father goes into the den to watch the evening news, and I go sit with him. They’re doing a segment about the proposed economic bill. According to one com
mentator, the obstinacy of the conservatives is getting in the way of the legislative work that needs to be done; the bill must pass. According to another commentator, the obstinacy of the liberals is getting in the way of the legislative work that needs to be done; the bill must not pass.

  “It’s always this same story.” Dad sighs. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes with the backs of his hands.

  The show goes to commercial. A man with white hair and white teeth is at the beach with a little girl. They build a sand castle. The little girl giggles. She’s television-adorable with her brown braids and round eyes, but there is something vaguely menacing about her tiny pointy teeth. Before I can point this out to my father, the old man and little girl disappear, replaced by the octagonal Keep Corp logo and the caption THESE MOMENTS ARE FOR KEEPS.

  My breath tangles up in my throat. I get the absurd idea the commercial is chiding me about my damaged memory key. But of course I’m being ridiculous. It was just a commercial, a commercial coincidence.

  “That’s a new one,” says Dad. His voice is stiff, and when I glance at him I know he’s thinking about her.

  “That’s a dumb one,” I say. “These moments are for keeps? More like these moments are for creeps.”

  He laughs obligingly. “Oh, Lora. What would I do without you?”

  The weatherman comes on, his tan as golden as his hair. He tells us it’ll be hot and humid for the next few days, with possible storms coming in over the weekend. Then the picture flickers, then the screen empties.

  “I’ll get it,” I say. I run down to the basement and reset the breakers in the fuse box. The past few months, we’ve been having power problems. Dad called the electric company and they told him it was a statewide issue and they’d send a technician as soon as possible. That was weeks ago. I return to the den to check that the TV is back on.

  “Thanks, Lora,” says my father.

  “Welcome, Dad.” I tell him I’m going upstairs to get ready, and I go—carefully again: careful up the stairs, careful down the hallway, careful into my room. Yes, it seems if I focus completely on what I’m doing, I can keep myself in the present.

  I pull my blue dress from the closet. On it goes. I smile for the mirror. I look fine, but only fine, and fine is not enough because Wendy’s brother will be there tonight. Not that I care about him, not really. I flip through my other clothes, but everything seems wrong: too fancy, too casual, too tight, too loose, too long, too short.

  Finally, in the farthest, darkest corner, my hand slides on something soft. I pull whatever it is into the light and find peach silk with tiny printed flowers, cap sleeves, and a fluttering hem. The dress is not my dress, but it’s not unfamiliar. It belonged to my mother.

  The memories avalanche. At a cousin’s wedding, she twirls on the dance floor, the peach dress floating above her knees . . . I’m sitting on the floor with my babysitter, and my mother in the peach dress stoops to kiss me good-bye . . . It’s her birthday and Dad and I are dressed up and waiting. He’s wearing a tie and smells of his spicy aftershave. She comes down the stairs, blushing in her peach dress, her hair curling soft around her shoulders, lips pinked with lipstick. She is beautiful.

  Why is her dress in my closet? As soon as the question forms in my mind, the memory answers. I am twelve years old. I’m in my bed, waiting for her to kiss me good night. Mom? I call out. Mom! Finally, she comes. Over her arm is the peach dress, scrunched and limp around her elbow.

  What’s that? I ask. Are you going out?

  This is for you. I don’t need it anymore.

  I laugh. That won’t fit me. It’s way too big.

  It’ll fit you one day. And if not, you can keep it to remember me.

  Okay, I say happily.

  She kisses my cheek. I love you, Lora, she tells me. Don’t ever forget.

  I blink. I’m back in the present. I take off the blue cotton and slide on the peach silk. The dress fits me as if it were mine. And I’m pretty in it. Even I can see that, and I rarely think I’m pretty. My hair seems darker and shinier. I have a waist. I don’t look like her, no, I’ll never be as beautiful as my mother was. But in her dress, I am pretty.

  Still, I’m unsettled by my memory of that night. It’s not grief; it’s not only grief. There was something odd about what she said, and the way she said it. There was something odd about the fact she gave me her dress. It still fit her. She still wore it.

  Then I realize that night was the last night I saw her.

  That night was the night before the accident.

  I don’t need it anymore, she had said.

  I love you, Lora, don’t ever forget, she had said.

  And the next morning, she was gone.

  3.

  MY FATHER IS CALLING FOR ME. I GO DOWNSTAIRS AND FIND him at the front door, tying his shoes, scrambling around for his keys. He looks at me. He looks at my dress. My mother’s peach dress. He turns away. “Let’s go,” he says.

  I follow him outside and we get into the car. I can’t tell if he is sad or angry or annoyed. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn the dress. I want to apologize, but I’m not sure how to do it without mentioning Mom and making it worse. It’s been five years, but he still doesn’t like to talk about her.

  It’s a relief when we arrive.

  “Finally!” Wendy says as she opens the door. “I’m so glad you could make it. How are you? How’s your head? Do you like potato salad? Everyone’s out in the yard. We got a new grill and they’re trying to figure out how to get it to work. Can you believe it?”

  “Thank you for having us,” says Dad.

  “Your dress!” Wendy touches the silky fabric. “Is it new? I love it.”

  “Thanks.” I glance at my father but he is already halfway down the hall.

  “Are you mad at me?” whispers Wendy.

  “Why would I be mad at you?” I am genuinely puzzled.

  “Because I called your dad and told him what happened.”

  “I’m not mad,” I say. “I know you meant well.”

  “I did mean well!” Wendy slips her arm through my arm, grinning, and when I blink she transforms into that little girl again. She is showing me around her house on our very first playdate. What do you want to do? Want to see my drawings? Or we can run outside. I have roller skates, do you?

  “Come on, Lora,” says grown-up Wendy. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  My voice is lost somewhere in the past, so I nod, and we go out to the backyard. It’s crowded with Wendy’s family: her parents and her brother, plus aunts, uncles, and cousins. The adults are sitting around the table. The kids are roaming around the grass. I look for my dad. He appears wholly involved in conversation with two uncles.

  “Lora! We heard about your heroics today,” says Mrs. Laskey. Wendy’s mother is not as tall as Wendy, but just as slender, and looks so young that strangers occasionally mistake mother and daughter for sisters. Mrs. Laskey, of course, loves it when this happens. Wendy, of course, hates it.

  “It was nothing.” I jab my elbow into Wendy’s arm. She jabs me back.

  “Are you kidding?” Tim materializes out of nowhere and sits next to me. “You saved Ms. Pearl, my favorite teacher ever. In seventh grade she told me that girls would like me better if I stopped shooting spitballs into their hair. Best advice I’ve ever gotten.”

  Wendy giggles and so does Mrs. Laskey, but I am statue-still, praying that the past stays past. Because I don’t want to remember when I had that huge crush on Tim. I don’t want to remember how I pined and pined, though I knew it was hopeless. Of course it was hopeless: Tim was older and funny and charming and popular and cute, so cute with his messy black hair and sleepy eyes and enormous laugh. And I was just that pesky girl who ran around with his kid sister.

  I don’t want to remember that, or what happened after that, so I concentrate on the hardness of my chair under my thighs. “How’s college life?” I ask him, casual as can be.

  “Terrible.” He sighs. “On top of schoolwork a
nd studying, last semester I was working at the lab twenty hours a week. All these responsibilities really get in the way of my social life.”

  “Don’t listen to him, he just loves complaining,” says Wendy. “Whenever I visit he’s playing computer games with all his nerd friends.”

  Tim turns to his mother. “She’s making it up,” he says. “I promise you, Mom, I would never have nerd friends.”

  Mrs. Laskey beams at her bickering children. It’s always loud and jolly at Wendy’s house, which I appreciate, and appreciate even more right now—all these distractions seem to be holding back the memories. Perhaps my mind is too busy to go wandering into the past when there is so much to look at and listen to and laugh about and eat.

  And there is so much to eat. Dinner is a feast of grilled meat and fish and vegetables and potato salad and fruit salad and green salad and zucchini pie. My aunt calls to say she’s going to be late, sorry, and we should start without her, so we do. We pile our food high on paper plates, and when one plate starts sagging we simply add another. The adults drink wine; Wendy and I are allowed one small glass each, and Tim is allowed one large glass.

  When everyone is stuffed full Mrs. Laskey says, “Save room for dessert!” and everyone groans because it’s too late, no one has saved any room for dessert. The unanimous decision is made to take a break. Wendy and I lie in the grass while her little cousins tumble around us. The adults chatter on, sitting around the table and drinking. I’m sleepy from my small glass of wine.

  “I can’t believe we’ve graduated,” says Wendy.

  “Me neither,” I say. “Now what will become of us?”

  “Fame, fortune, and happiness.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “It’s pretty obvious,” says Wendy.

  Mrs. Laskey asks us to fix the dessert, so we go into the house. In the long hallway that connects the living room to the kitchen, we meet my aunt.

  “My dear girls, I’m so sorry I’m so late,” she says. It’s clear she came straight from her meeting; she’s still in her suit with her shirt buttoned tight to her throat. Her bobbed black hair is sleek to her chin. Aunt Austin looks like a serious woman, and she is a serious woman, but when she smiles her face changes so much it’s hard to recognize her as that serious woman. She smiles now.